


Let Me Embrace Thee

by Fyre



Series: Desire Increase [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley and the Inevitable Struggle between Cold and Cool, Cuddling & Snuggling, Sharing Body Heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:42:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25882264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: After the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, Aziraphale and Crowley are trying new things.Wherein an angel helps a demon keep warm.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Desire Increase [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1784770
Comments: 68
Kudos: 284





	Let Me Embrace Thee

Winter, Crowley decided many, many, _many_ centuries ago, is a complete bastard.

It’s not the fact he’s a snake that’s a problem. Okay, yeah, it doesn’t _help_ , but who needs black ice? How the hell are you meant to get anywhere with humanity skidding all over the place? It’s worse when they’re in their cars and buses. ‘Leaves on the line’ and some bollocks.

The inconvenience of the thing gets right up his nose.

Oh, and the cold. The cold is a nightmare.

They could’ve been living it up in the Med. Or _Africa_. Now there’s a continent that knew how to do winter right. Ten above freezing? Perfect. But no. Course not. He just had to go and fall for an angel and the city the angel fell for when it was barely more than a Roman settlement.

“We don’t _have_ to go for walks in this weather,” Aziraphale says gently, as they wander up in the direction of Leicester Square.

“Someone has to feed the buggers,” Crowley argues, shoulders hunched against the chill.

He doesn’t need to look to know the soft dopey smile that’s playing across the angel’s face. “A shame most of them have flown south for the winter,” Aziraphale says, butting his elbow against Crowley’s as they walk.

The angel’s made a solitary concession to the weather. Nothing drastic. No surprise there. He’s wrapped a ridiculously thick and overly long scarf twice around his neck, the long, tasselled ends draped over his belly and, unlike Crowley, his cheeks are pink and rosy. No gloves, though. He’s just happily twining and curling long fluffy puffs of wool around his fingers.

And that’s another thing Crowley hates about the sodding winter.

Could’ve taken his hand. Just like that. Had the excuse to keep his hands warms, but no. Aziraphale had to go and find a piece of clothing that he could bury his hands in and keep warm all by himself.

That said, wouldn’t really be Aziraphale’s hands that were being warmed.

Crowley huffs, poking his hands deeper into the minimalist pockets of his jeans, which expand obligingly.

“You really should get some gloves,” Aziraphale says as they get closer and closer to Soho. “Or maybe a thicker coat.

“Hardly cool, is it?” Crowley grumbles, as if this isn’t an argument they’ve been having on and off since Arthurian times.

“But it is rather _cold_.”

Crowley casts half-hearted daggers at him and Aziraphale – bloody bastard – gives a delighted little wiggle. It earns him a snort.

“Oh don’t sulk,” Aziraphale chides fondly. “It’ll be nice and warm in the bookshop and we’ll have you back to your usual amiable self.”

The demon makes a face, but frankly, he would even accept some of Aziraphale’s fancy cocoa at this point if it means getting sensation back in his hands. He’s fairly sure if he was a human, he’d be doing that weather-based chameleon trick.

As promised, the shop is toasty warm when the angel opens the door and shoos him in. His glasses don’t bother steaming up. They know better than that. So he takes three long steps in, tugs his hands from his pockets and exhales in relief, ready to begin the slow process of thawing.

Aziraphale closes the door behind him and, from the soft sound of cloth and wool, is unravelling his miles of scarf. “Now, come here,” the angel says suddenly, catching him off-guard.

“Eh?” Crowley turns and before he can process the face that Aziraphale’s coat _and_ waistcoat are undone, the angel catches his hands and pressed them flush against his chest. Only a shirt between skin to skin. Angel’s heart is thumping there. Right there. Warm and strong and Crowley’s hands start shaking for reasons not the cold. “Ngh!”

“You’re cold as ice,” Aziraphale murmurs, rubbing his broad warm hands over Crowley’s colder ones, as if the graze of hand to hand isn’t adding fuel to a flame. And look at that. Isn’t just his hands shaking now. Full body, all over. “Oh, my dear boy.”

The angel moves suddenly closer, closing the gap between them and Crowley’s stupid unsupervised hands follow the equatorial line of Aziraphale’s belly and disappear into heretofore undiscovered regions of his _sides_. And they’re suddenly, just like that, chest to chest, heart to heart, and Crowley’s ribs rise and fall like a bellows against the angel’s.

Aziraphale’s kaleidoscope eyes search his face, his hands hovering just shy of resting on Crowley’s shoulders. “Is this all right?”

Crowley’s words have buggered off somewhere, useless things that they are. Instead, he just nods, crooking his fingers into Aziraphale’s back, into the softness and the warmth and shakes like a tree in a gale until Aziraphale’s arms are around him too and he’s entirely wrapped up in warmth and the panicked in-out of his breath sinks into the more sedate rise-fall of Aziraphale’s.

And he melts. Not literally, yeuch, but stiffness from cold eases out of him and his head dips, brow knocking against Aziraphale’s. Rests there, both of them just standing, still and quiet and hands on each other’s back, breathing. It feels like the days when he basked on a warm rock back in the earliest days, leeching the heat from contact, pushing back the soporific cold.

Some time later – hours? Minutes? Who knows – Aziraphale pats his back. “Isn’t that better?”

“Ngh.” Crowley agrees, kneading at his back through the thin fabric of his shirt. He’s so soft, padding over bones, but solid too. What would that skin feel like under his palms, thick folds and softly-furred with fair hair? He follows Aziraphale’s spine with his fingertips, feels him shiver, sees the tip of his tongue between his lips.

“Do you want to let go?” The angel is shading pinker, but he’s still holding Crowley and that’s good enough for a sign that he’s liking this too.

Crowley’s fingers dig a little deeper in the negative. Close is good. Warm is good. And Aziraphale’s expression goes even softer and warmer than the rest of him.

“Come here,” he murmured, drawing Crowley’s head to his shoulder. “I’ll keep you cosy.”

And so, serpent-like, Crowley curls about him, drinking in his warmth for as long as he’ll allow and lets his hands splay and, as they stand there, gently swaying together, Aziraphale sighs softly, content, and lets him.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Let Me Embrace Thee](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26681008) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




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